


Teddy Bears

by PenelopeAbigail



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Each chapter has a different writing style?, Gen, Implied spoilers for Season 2 finale, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Present Tense, There's chapters?, Traumatic things have happened and the team has to pick themselves up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-01-15 01:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18488428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeAbigail/pseuds/PenelopeAbigail
Summary: Mac disappears without a trace, and the team falls apart.





	1. The After

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've been playing around with for a while. It's short, and the writing style is sort of experimental, I mean, I don't have much experience writing in the present tense.

_“911, what’s your emergency?”_

~

The drive is quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that worries you, that carries tension, that makes you suspect that your passenger has something against you or something to say.

Awkward silence. That’s the term.

Jack glances in the rearview mirror.

Mac insisted on sitting in the back, wouldn’t get in the passenger seat, but wouldn’t open the rear door himself, either.

He’s staring out the window, watching the scenery change, still as a statue huddled in the back seat as far from Jack as he can get, delicately cradling that stuffed bear.

A glance was all Jack could spare since he was driving, and he shifts behind the wheel, sighing. Everything has changed, everything is different.

Everything is _going to be_ different.

Jack has no idea what he’s going to do.

~

_“It’s the house next door. I think—I think there’s something wrong. I’m worried.”_

_~_

“Jack? What’s up?”

“Hey, Riles. Listen.” A pause. “There’s no good—no easy way to say this…”

“Jack, what’s going on?”

Quietly, as if choked by tears, “They found him, Riles. They found Mac.”

A gasp. Shuffling movement indicative of standing up. “ _What_? When? Where? Why didn’t you just _say_ that? Where are you—I’ll—“

“Riles, Riley, listen, no. Honey, no, he’s—“

“Is he okay—He’s not, he’s not…” Tapering off, shaken, afraid.

“No, no. He’s not dead. He’s alive. But…” A shakey inhale, thinking about the choice of phrasing. “He’s not okay. Terrible, horrible things have happened. I don’t—I—I think—“ Forced exhale, sniffling. Slower, calmer, “He’s not Mac anymore.”

Silence on the other end.

They are both scared.

~

_“Why are you worried?”_

~

Jack leaves him on the tire swing out back as he goes to the grocery store. He doesn’t want Mac to feel cooped up in the house, isolated, imprisoned. He also doesn’t want Mac to come into town with him. Too many questions, too much to worry about.

Matty has yet to get back to him about the cover story, so he still doesn’t know what’s classified and what’s not, what to tell people, how to answer questions. Avoidance is the safest route right now.

He loads the cart down with tasty snacks, nothing bland, and turns down the personal care aisle. Mac needs soap, needs toothpaste and a toothbrush, needs deodorant, shampoo, and— _no_. Not anymore. Not for a while, until his hair grows out at least.

When the kid starts to open up more, Jack’ll bring him out, buy him clothes, shoes, whatever he wants. The bruises need to fade first, and the bandages need to come off.

Jack doesn’t know what to expect from Mac, doesn’t know what to expect from this whole situation. It’s not a situation that he’s prepared for, that he ever expected to _need_ to be prepared for.

Of course, he always carried hope that Mac would come back. Every day, he would wake up wondering if Mac was even still alive, and now that he’s back and going to be living with Jack for the foreseeable future, Jack is even more excited.

He’s also afraid.

Mac has changed dramatically in the two and a half years he’d been gone—taken, _kidnapped_ —and Jack just got him back, so he’s still testing the water, still figuring out how to handle him. Should he treat Mac like an injured POW, shell shocked from PTSD? Should he treat him like the normal Mac that went missing without a trace?Should he treat him like a child that needs help buttoning up their shirt—because Mac did. Poor kid’s fingers healed wrong or so the doctor said, and Mac doesn’t have the coordination that he used to.

Jack is standing in the middle of the aisle, staring at a bottle of shampoo, wishing none of this had happened at all.

~

 _“When I go out to garden, I often hear yelling, and—and screaming, and yesterday, I was picking up flyaway litter near his window, and I heard crying, like—like, a person, no—I mean_ not a child, _an adult. I think it might domestic.”_

~

Matty walks down the row, careful of where she’s stepping. People don’t normally appreciate someone walking on their grandmother’s grave.

Why was she the one to receive the notice?

Mac’s employment had been terminated two years ago, so by all legal standing, he is no longer associated with the Phoenix Foundation. Matty isn’t even his emergency contact, isn’t on his list of contacts at all.

Yet, it was she that received the call about Mac’s file. Someone in Montana requested his file, and that shouldn’t be a Phoenix issue. His file was closed and sealed as per protocol. He is out of her hands.

She approved the file transfer and immediately called Dalton to investigate in person. It wasn’t a Phoenix issue, which was why only he could do it.

She knew he wouldn’t be over it, would still be hurting, and a clue like this would be good enough to get him back in his head.

She told him that they had a lead. He yelled at her for bringing it up after all this time. He claimed he’d already moved on. She said it was a _hospital_ that requested his file—based on _recent_ blood work. He boarded the next flight.

She called Bozer at his office in Hollywood, let him know that Jack was following the lead. She wanted to keep him in the loop.

She didn’t say anything to Riley, didn’t want her to lose focus on the mission she was leading in the War Room.

That left only one person to inform.

James MacGyver.

She glances at his tombstone, side by side with his wife, and side by side with his son, whose body is apparently alive and breathing.

She stops, says, “I jumped the gun.” She lays the flowers in front of her.

“I gave up, and I’m so sorry.”

She sits down, plays with the grass a little. It’s a solemn moment. A breeze ruffles her hair and she looks at the grave she’s sitting atop.

 _Angus MacGyver_.

~

_“Is there the possibility of that having come from a TV?”_

_~_

Bozer stands in the doorway, quiet, watching. Mac is in the armchair by the fireplace, one hand holding a hook, the other maneuvering some yarn around. There’s a couple skeins of light blue yarn in the basket on the floor.

He’s crocheting. Jack said he does that, must’ve learned it while he was imprisoned in that House. He’s slow, has trouble coordinating his fingers now.

Mac doesn’t move, doesn’t make any sort of indication of knowing Bozer is there.

Boz had given up hope of finding him. He’d thought he would never see his best friend again. It’s been _so long._

One of Jack’s foals came down with something, so Jack asked Bozer to keep an eye on Mac while he took the horse to the vet. Jack estimated he’d be gone for about seven hours, and Bozer wondered why Mac needed a babysitter for so short a time.

Truth is, Bozer hasn’t been by to see Mac since he was rescued. It’s been three months. He didn’t _know_ how Mac has changed. Even watching him weave the yarn, Bozer gets the sense that Mac is fundamentally _off_.

He’s been standing in the door for a while, afraid to enter, to approach, to interact. He’s afraid this already overwhelming sadness will get deeper, take root in his heart, and never let go.

Mac doesn’t talk anymore. Amongst all the scars that hide beneath the clothing, his absent voice screams the loudest. He hums, makes noises of content or discontent, but never opens his mouth. This is the first thing Bozer finds out. This is the first root.

~

_“Um, I don’t think so, I’m pretty sure it was real. Speakers sound different if you know what I mean.”_

_~_

After Mac disappeared, the team fell apart.

Oversight did nothing, so Jack confronted him directly and learned that day where Mac’s father “disappeared” to. Then Jack left. He moved back to Texas to be closer to his family because family is everything to him and Mac left a hole that needed filling. He fixed up the ranch with some cousins, cared for the county’s horses that the police sometimes rode, and makes a pretty decent profit. He was fixing up Frenchie’s shoes when Matty called.

Bozer had been with Mac throughout their childhoods. He was there for Mac when his dad abandoned him, saw how it changed him, and learned that his best friend was the strongest kid he knew. When Jack left, Oversight introduced himself to the rest of the team. Then Bozer left, too. There was no way he was going to continue working for that scumbag after all he put Mac through. Even though Mac was gone, Bozer wasn’t about to disrespect his memory like that. He stayed in the house, needing that lifeline to Mac, but he landed a job editing typos for a writer’s room and moved up the ladder from there.

He was in a meeting with his other writers, working on changing the script around when the secretary poked her head in with an urgent call for him from Matty.

Riley was the last to find out. She hadn’t left Phoenix like the others. She felt that her talents would turn her to the dark side if she stopped fighting for the good guys. She was in the War Room with a new team on a video call when Matty found out. Riley didn’t learn the truth that day.

No, she had to wait another week for Jack to call her up from his motel room. He didn’t know that Matty hadn’t told her.

~

“ _I understand, ma’am. I’m sending a squad car to investigate. Would you like to stay on the line?”_

_~_

One spring morning, Mac went on a run before work. He never came home.

Two and a half years later, a newlywed couple moved into the vacant house next door.

Ten days later, the police were called, the house was raided, and an emaciated young man was found horribly abused.

He won’t let go of the raggedy, old teddy bear.


	2. The Escapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac tries to escape seven times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the tags say, this chapter is in a different style than the previous one. Don't let that throw you off :)
> 
> 4/21: It's come to my attention that I used "electric fence" when I meant "underground fence" or "invisible fence" so I fixed it.

The first time he tries to escape is the day after he’s kidnapped. He succeeds. The Man is away, took the car to the store to get things Mac needs to move in. No problem, Mac will just walk to the nearest phone. He’s walking for an hour with no civilization in sight, and he realizes he’s out in the middle of literally nowhere. The Man spots him on the side of the road and tasers him. Mac wakes up back in that room. That’s when he’s given that stupid teddy bear. He names it Jack since it’s his only company.

The second time he tries to escape is a week later. Another success, almost. Easter means he gets to pretend to be the Man’s well-behaved son to the extended family. He adjusts his sleeves to hide the bruises and pulls on his too-small button-up to ensure the bandages are hidden. There are six cars now, and the ’69 Mustang is easy to hot-wire. He’s talking to the sheriff an hour later when he realizes the Man has pre-established a reputation for him. Apparently, Mac has a history of confusion due to his head injury several years ago, so the sheriff drives Mac back to the house. He protests the entire way, but the sheriff’s just doing his job and Mac doesn’t want to hurt him. The Man discreetly ties him up in the confined closet while he entertains guests for the next several hours, then when they’re gone, Mac’s whipped bloody and spends the night hanging from his wrists in the basement.

The third time he tries to escape is two weeks later. He fails but only because of horrible luck. A coyote got into the chicken coop in the middle of the night, and the Man is chasing it away with the rifle when Mac makes a run for the car. Bad luck strikes five miles out and the car runs out of gas. The sheriff has to taser him because he fights and screams and attacks. The Man is angry, beats him black and blue, breaks some ribs, leaves him in the confined closet all night. He’s drunk when he pulls Mac out the next morning, and Mac is in pain, sorry, and crying. The Man doesn’t care, is still angry, still drunk, and Mac learns why he was taken. The Man is raving about how he looks just like Mother, so pretty, skin so delicate and soft, and the Man is very drunk, and Mac is tied to the bed frame, defenseless as he’s molested.

The fourth time he tries to escape is three months later. Father starts to trust him more, let him outside to help with the yard work when Mac tries to make a run for it. Father tackles him before he can make it to the barn where the car is locked away, breaks his leg then and there, and drags him back inside to spend the night in excruciating pain in the confined closet that he’s come to fear so very much. He’s crying and begging Father to let him out all night long, but Father hits him, gags him, and yells at him to _just shut up_. He tosses him his teddy bear the next morning before shutting the door again and leaving until noon.

The fifth time he tries to escape is two months after that, after his leg is properly healed. It’s too easy, he knows that. Father is _letting_ him escape, he knows that. This isn’t going to succeed, he _knows that_. But he’s free! Father doesn’t chase him, doesn’t stop him from dashing to the barn, when he collapses, electric shocks overtaking his system. He knows that it’s an underground fence, so he crawls back over the threshold until the electricity stops. Father is upset but satisfied, tells him he’s bad, and locks him in the closet until supper.

The sixth time he tries to escape is yet another two months later. He disables the shock collar easily—his special skills have stuck with him through it all, and Father loves that about him, tells him all the time that he’s special and that Father will never ever give up on him, on his recovery. Mac knows that he’s _not_ recovering, that he’s _not_ Father’s real son, that he needs to get away before he’s completely brainwashed. Father is screaming and yelling behind him, but Mac doesn’t turn, just keeps running. He’ll end up in the town in two hours if his calculations are correct, and they’re always correct. But Father gets him in the back of the thigh with the rifle, and Mac drops Jack in the dirt. Father conducts the surgery himself, ashamed of Mac’s behavior, not wanting anyone in town to know how foolish his son is. He’s mad at Father for a whole week for leaving Jack out there all alone.

The seventh time he tries to escape is four months later. He’s been here a whole year. He knows he needs to run away, but he’s so afraid of Father’s wrath, that he doesn’t really want to try. He’s happy here, right? Father takes care of him, provides for him, makes sure he has what he needs, so why should he leave this? He knows Jack’s waiting for him, knows that Jack is probably sad, that Jack needs him more than Father does, so he waits until Father is asleep to steal his rifle and toss it in the furnace. He ties Father to the bed and is joyfully jogging away when he collapses to the ground, overtaken by the shocks of the underground fence. Father had implanted the device in his leg when he stitched Mac up. He waits writhing in the dark for Father to escape the knots and drag him back home. He’s never seen Father this angry, and he’s whipped until he _begs_ for forgiveness. He never tries to escape again. Father rewards his good behavior by giving Jack back, dirty but whole.

The eighth time is a year and a half later, and it isn’t his fault. He tries to stop it. He knows Father will be angry, and he knows the implant will hurt, but it’s the police. They show up and arrest Father, try to force Mac out of the house, off the property, and over the barrier. He knows better than to speak, knows that any pain inflicted is better than the punishment of speaking, but they don’t understand. He struggles, kicks and screams, but they carry him anyway, over the threshold. He passes out with tears rolling off his cheeks before the EMTs figure it out. He wakes in a hospital a few hours later and is terribly, terribly afraid. Father will be so angry. A man that is eerily familiar is asleep next to his bed, but Jack is nowhere to be found.


	3. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are too many people here and Mac is anxious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't as heartbreaking or sad, but it still demanded to be written.   
> Also, it's written like a normal story, with character thought and actual dialogue.

The wedding is beautiful. The colors are scarlet and white, the flowers are lilies and roses, the cakes are cookies stacked upon cookies. It’s partially indoors, partially outdoors, hosted in Texas at Jack’s ranch.

The contrast of the green trees, the red roses, the brown dirt, and the white lilies makes the photographer very happy. The natural scenery is already so vibrant that little editing will need to be done to the pictures.

There are only a few rows of seating. With their jobs, friends are hard to come by, but the ones they do make tend to stick around for the whole journey, despite presumed death. Besides, neither the groom nor the bride can afford to advertise their location. Jack’s ranch is a classified safe house within the Phoenix Foundation. It’s not on google maps, and it doesn’t even have an address. Everyone in attendance can feel free to let their guard down, relax, and celebrate the big day.

The men aren’t dressed yet, afraid of getting mud on their suits. They’re tending to the horses before the ceremony begins so that Jack and Mac won’t have to cut the party short later. But they still have time. It won’t begin for another two hours.

The women are giggling in the room upstairs, bouncing with excitement, and deftly applying each other’s make up. They can see the men from the window in the corner, and some of them are bouncing, too.

The choosing of the Maid of Honor and the Best Man were some of the hardest choices in the bride and groom’s lives, but nobody is unhappy with the decisions. The families get along, the friends get along, the bosses get along.

It is a happy day.

It is _going to be_ a happy day, just as soon as Mac is happy too, and not a moment sooner.

Riley is radiant as a star in the night sky, hair braided up, white gown ever-just brushing the ground. Technically, the bride’s maids and _only_ the bride’s maids are allowed to see her before she walks down the aisle, but Mac is the exception.

He’s perfectly fine, nods that he’s okay, but Riley can see him biting this lip, can see the lack of truth in his eyes.

The Bride’s Room is also Mac’s room, the largest bedroom in the house and the most open and clean. He chose that room himself, cleaned the clutter and junk away, and he and Jack built the bed frame themselves. He poured his soul into making this room comfortable and this is where his safety lies. This is also where he goes when he’s having a bad day.

He’s been living with Jack for almost four months now. Riley is only able to visit every now and then (she thinks this makes the fourth visit), so she’s able to see and catalog Mac’s growth.

He still doesn’t talk, won’t open his mouth, but he laughs and smiles, nods and hums. Jack tells her that it’s not that he won’t talk but that he won’t communicate. Jack suspects it’s a trust thing, suspects that Mac doesn’t fully trust them yet. Riley understands. After all Mac went through, Riley can understand why.

It doesn’t bother her.

That he’s bothered by something bothers her.

He’s standing in the doorway awkwardly rubbing one arm, eyes on the floor when she spots him.

Something’s bothering him.

She doesn’t point him out to the other girls, intentionally refusing to put him on the spot, instead goes over to him quietly.

“Are you okay?”

He looks her in the eyes, glances behind her into the room, and smiles, nods, but his lip quivers, his eyes shine. She sees the lie.

She’s had the _you can trust me_ talk with him every time she comes, so she doesn’t bother repeating it again, just takes his arm and leads him to Jack’s room. There’s no one in here, nothing to disturb either, so they sit on the bed and she holds his hand.

After so long with violence as the only luxury, he needs some comfort in his life. He doesn’t pull away, and she doesn’t let go.

She sits with him for a minute but he doesn’t relax.

“I know there’s something wrong, don’t lie. Are there too many people here?”

He shrugs and shakes his head.

She knows, yes there are, but that’s not what’s wrong right now.

“Have you eaten today?”

He nods.

“Do you want to show me what’s wrong?”

His eyebrows scrunch together, but he doesn’t respond.

Maybe he _can’t_ show her?

Jack knows how to read him better than she can, so she asks, “Want me to get Jack?”

He perks up, immediately turns hopeful eyes to hers and _please_ is written all over them.

She stands up, opens the door, but thinks twice.

“Wanna come with me, or wanna stay here?”

He follows her.

Jack is in the kitchen with Elwood, talking quietly, and Elwood is sniffing. It’s a Father’s meeting.

She forgets she’s already in her dress until they both quickly shield her from their eyes.

“Ah, Riley! You’ll jinx us all!” Jack exclaims.

She smiles, “Only if you look at me.” The smirk is evident in her voice, but teasing them is not why she’s there, and she continues without pause, “Jack,” and she gets closer, drops her voice. “Something’s bothering Mac, and you know him better than me.”

Jack sobers up and observes Mac. He’s standing in the threshold much the same way as earlier, eyes downcast.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?”

Mac opens his mouth, but not a sound comes out. He closes it and glances away, walks out of the door and up the stairs.

Jack turns back to Riley, Elwood watching, “Can you tell me what happened?” He’s immediately concerned. Riley knows that Jack loves her like his own daughter, probably more than Elwood, but Mac takes up more room in his heart than she does, and that’s okay.

She shakes her head, though, “Nothing happened, but I can tell something’s wrong. He said he’s eaten. I _thought_ he wanted me to find you, but I guess—“

“ _Me_? What did you ask, exactly?”

“I asked him if he wanted me to get you. He didn’t really answer the question, but—“

He shakes his head and interrupts, “It’s not me, Riles,” he stills, hand on her shoulder, “It’s _Jack_. Is his bear in the room up there?”

“His bear? I don’t— _oh…_ ” His bear was named Jack, too. That’s probably why he was waiting to come in, not wanting to intrude on the girls getting ready but also wanting the comfort of his bear. There probably _were_ too many people in the house, and they were making him anxious—he doesn’t like confined spaces. His bear always calms him.

As fast as someone in a wedding gown can go, she retrieves the raggedy brown bear and finds him in Jack’s room again, waiting. He’s as smart as he ever was, knew she’d figure it out, and knew that she’d look for him here.

She half imagines him holding his arms out for the toy as she approaches, but he’s not a child. He waits patiently, a longing smile on his lips. She sits next to him, holds his bear out next to her for him to grab. He does. He’s gentle with it, careful.

He’s gentle with her, too, careful as he leans against her slightly. He doesn’t want to wrinkle her dress.

“Two more hours, Mac,” she says offhandedly. Sighs. Two more hours and she won’t be Riley Davis anymore.

Mac’s okay now, so she asks him, “Do you still have the rings?”

He looks at her and nods, smiling like he’s never smiled before.

He’s excited now; Riley’s excited, too, because a couple of weeks ago, she and Billy were arguing about the style of their rings. They both agreed that they needed to match, but that was all they agreed on. They video called Jack and Mac for their opinion, when without discussing it beforehand, Billy asked Mac to _make_ the rings.

Mac’s been working on them every day since, and he’s kept them as a surprise. She hasn’t seen them, but Jack says not to worry (she wasn’t worried anyway), that they’re as beautiful as she is.

It was only fitting that Mac is the ring bearer, too.

He’s not in his suit yet, probably waiting for Jack to help with the details, but Jack will probably wait until the last minute to change.

She knows Mac won’t want help, but she wants to make sure he knows that she’s there if he needs anything, and she also would like him and Jack to not delay the wedding, so she asks, “Want me to help with your suit?”

He shakes his head, of course, gets up, and heads toward Jack’s closet. The door’s hinges are simple house hinges, no springs attached or anything. It’ll stay open without help, but Mac props it open anyway, takes a breath before going inside. He comes back out with two pressed suits, still wrapped in the dry-cleaning bags, lays them on the bed behind her, gently tugs her out the door and into the Bride’s Room, and then goes down the stairs, probably getting Jack.

He may be traumatized by that Man and that House, but he’s still as smart as ever. He knew what she was hinting, and he was going to make her happy.

Riley realizes that she really loves Mac and that today is going to be amazing.


	4. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team falls apart.

One spring morning, Mac went on a run before work. He never came home.

Bozer called him four times before leaving without him. He did leave a voicemail though, warning Mac that he’d be late and that in no way was it Bozer’s fault if Matty yells at him.

Matty called Mac twice more while they were all waiting for him in the War Room. Jack texted him three times, and Riley tracked his phone to its last known location.

It was broken, and Mac wasn’t there.

~

A month later, the team ran out of leads and Oversight pulled funding, handing Mac’s case over to the local authorities.

He still allowed the Phoenix team to follow any leads that popped up, but because there were so few, the team understood that they would be best doing what they always do. It was hard, but they all agreed that handing it over to the people who were specialized in missing persons cases was the best course of action.

But still, they only took national jobs, searching wherever they went, determined to stick together so that Mac still had a family to come home to.

Every now and then, on a day off or if something popped up, Jack would drop by the station and see if he could be of any help. Most of the time he couldn’t, but he was reassured that Mac’s case was _not_ closed. They just had no leads and didn’t know where to go, and Jack was allowed to do anything he wanted, go anywhere he wanted, run any test he wanted, as long as it was relevant to Mac’s case.

It always was.

But as the days crawled by, the list of things to follow up on slimmed down to none, and Jack dropped by less and less.

A piece of their family puzzle was missing, and nobody knew where to look.

~

A month later, Matty was forced to terminate Mac’s employment. There was no ceremony, but Oversight allowed an Honorable Discharge.

The police filed Mac away as a cold case.

This was when the team started to fall apart.

Bozer lost all hope of finding him, all hope of Mac still being alive. He was sad all the time, mopey, and devoid of any other emotion. He became a crappy field agent, and Matty transferred him to the labs permanently.

Riley absorbed the hope Boz shed, determined to write a program that used the satellites and her own facial recognition software to scan the _whole country_. She was going to find Mac, and she was frustrated with Bozer for giving up.

Jack was angry all the time. Angry that he failed Mac, angry that the police dropped the case, angry that Oversight refused to _try_. Mac was _the best_ agent Phoenix had, and Oversight did _nothing_. Jack was so angry that he became careless in the field, and Matty sent him on fewer and fewer missions.

Their family was falling apart and they didn’t realize it.

~

Three months after Mac vanished, Riley found a lead on James MacGyver and handed it over to Jack.

Jack confronted him outside a doctor’s office, found out that he has been dying of cancer, learned that he’s been in LA this _whole time_ and refused to speak to his son, and discovered who Oversight really was. Jack quit on the spot and called Riley and Boz in his car.

He was furious, confronted Matty about lying to their faces, and said that Mac would have quit, too, if he knew.

Jack used the past tense, and he and Matty stood in shock for a while.

Matty and Oversight both agreed that Mac needed a funeral. In this line of work and with Mac’s skills, for him to have not come home already meant that he was probably dead.

Jack disagreed, said that if Mac were dead, they’d know. _He’d_ know.

Bozer talked to Jack before the funeral, told him that he didn’t want to believe it either, that he _knew_ Mac wasn’t dead, but that he’ll always be alive in their memories. Perhaps not knowing was easier. Perhaps Jack was in denial.

James walked in late, during Bozer’s speech, and Bozer stopped, calmly walked down the aisle, and broke his nose. He, too, quit on the spot in front of everybody and was the first to leave.

Their family fell apart, and Riley wondered: if Mac was alive, what did he have to come home to?

~

Jack goes home to Texas, takes his parent’s ranch from his cousins because they don’t want it and it’s just going to waste. Besides, the county police have too many horses for so small a plot of land. Jack can take better care of them. He supposes that’s what he’s been doing his whole life: taking care of things.

The police ask about his background, of course, making sure he knows what he’s doing. He does; he was raised around horses, raised on a ranch with ten times more land than what the country currently has for their horses, and he tells them so. He also tells them about his history with the CIA, his deployment to Afghanistan, and his time at the Think-Tank. They ask him if he’d like to be an officer instead. No, he turns it down. He no longer wants that kind of action in his life.

He’s tired of violence, tired of war, and tired of fighting for stuff that he doesn’t care about anymore. Let someone else dedicate their life for a cause they know nothing about. Let someone else protect EODs. Let _someone else_ protect skinny little kids who don’t know what they’re throwing away by joining the army.

He’s tired of it.

Mac’s gone. Mac’s _dead_ , and he’s _not coming back_ , and Jack’s tired of holding out hope for nothing to happen, tired of waiting for Mac to send a signal, a sign, _anything_ , tired of waking up wondering if today will be the day they find his body.

It’s been eight months and he’s _tired_.

~

Bozer doesn’t move away. He stays in LA, goes back to trying to make movies. He gets a different job, doesn’t go back to flipping burgers. He starts as a part-time pseudo-apprentice editing typos from scripts, fixing the formatting errors, and printing enough of them for whoever needs one.

He tries filming his own movies again, tries revisiting his old scripts, but he needs Mac for his original works. He wrote certain parts, certain characters _for_ Mac, and that’s all he’s able to think about. He can’t finish any of his old films, can’t even open the folders, view the files, read the scripts. There’s too much _Mac_ , and he’s trying to properly mourn, but he’s tired of crying all the time.

Leanna is there for him, understanding and comforting when she needs to be, and strict and stern when he needs her to be. They both know that staying in Mac’s grandfather’s house isn’t good for Boz. He sees Mac everywhere, hears Mac tinkering with something around the corner all the time. One time, he forgot Mac isn’t there anymore and startled himself when he remembered.

No, being in the house isn’t good for him, won’t help him move on, so Leanna helps him decide to increase his hours to full-time. He takes a promotion and becomes an actual writer for a television show.

That helps a lot. Between being away at work so much (he gets a lot of overtime, too) and being at Leanna’s when she’s not on a mission, he’s not spending so much time around Mac’s stuff.

But it still isn’t enough. Leanna can see him wearing thin, and it isn’t because of his work.

They both have accepted the fact that Mac is dead and that his body won’t ever be found. They _both_ have. But they also both know that Bozer is still waiting for him to come home, and that’s why he hasn’t rearranged the furniture, sold any of Mac’s stuff, or even stepped foot inside Mac’s room. They both know that Bozer is driving himself into the ground because of that house.

Mac’s gone eight months when Bozer decides to move out.

~

Riley doesn’t leave Phoenix. Mac was the one who got her out of prison and got her this job, and she’s not about to throw it away because of a jerk dude that she’s never even met. Oh yes, she is furious with Oversight, and she’ll never let it go. How can someone just _abandon_ their child, yet stay close enough to keep an eye on him and dictate his every move?

No, what James MacGyver did was unspeakably cruel, but she’s not in a position to treat him as if he did something to her personally. She’s proud of Jack and Bozer; they were close enough to Mac that Oversight’s revelation hit them hard. But she wasn’t. Oversight is just her boss, her stupid, idiotic boss. She won’t talk to him, but she’ll follow his orders.

She likes her job, likes how she can help out so much from so far away. The new team is completely different, but she loves them all the same. Sam came back from Australia, attended Mac’s service, and Matty offered her a position on the team. At first, Riley was worried that Matty was trying to replace Mac, or Bozer, or Jack, but Sam had known Mac too, and it seemed more like Matty was trying to surround herself with memories of Mac. Riley knew him less than two years, but she misses him enough to really appreciate Matty’s efforts to not forget about him.

Leanna joined the team, and absolutely nothing was done about her and Bozer dating. Nobody really cared; in fact, Matty was happy for Bozer and had requested Leanna herself.

So Sam, Leanna, and Riley make up the new Phoenix team. Matty stopped hanging out with them after Jack and Boz left, after everything fell apart. She is still considered part of the Phoenix family, but she’s the grandmother, now, the grandmother who the kids go visit twice a year.

Matty had made herself so scarce that Riley practically ran the War Room and debriefing, scheduled the infils and exfils, was practically the director herself.

In fact, eight months after Mac disappeared, Oversight dies of cancer, Matty is promoted to the new Oversight, and Riley is officially promoted to Director.

~

Two and a half years after Mac disappears, he reappears in a little hospital in northern Montana.

Matty calls Jack to investigate. He calls back three days later with “good” news. He’s sad.

The missing piece to their family has been found; too bad the other pieces have been torn apart. Who’s going to put the puzzle back together?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is a lengthy one, it's about six thousand words. I'll include another note when I get it up, but it contains depictions of an abusive relationship, actual abuse, and implications of heavy manipulation.   
> While they're in the chapter, they're not prominent enough to tag them as story warnings, especially since these chapters aren't in chronological order, and you don't need to read one to understand the next. You can easily just skip this chapter if these bother you.  
> So I'm not changing the warnings on the story as a whole, but I'm cautioning you about the next chapter.


	5. The Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac's typical day goes something like this and ends sometimes like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con in this chapter. Nothing explicit of course, but hinted.  
> This chapter also contains depictions of an abusive relationship, actual abuse, and implications of heavy manipulation.

The day goes like this.

The sunbeams crack through the night and the chickens start clucking, waking Mac right on time.

He’s gotten used to sleeping with his curtains open, so that he’ll wake when the sun rises, and it honestly didn’t take as long as he thought it would to train his body to adhere to this schedule.

He wants to turn over and go back to sleep, but he knows better. He can’t afford to be caught still in bed after the sunrise, so he sits up and rubs his face, wiping the crust from his eyes.

Making his bed is the first thing he does every morning. The tidier his room, the happier Father will be. So he tugs the fitted sheet back tight over the mattress, neatly lays the top sheet and blanket so that not a millimeter of the mattress can be seen, and centers his pillow by his headboard.

It’s a clockwork routine and doesn’t take two minutes.

He pulls on his jeans and boots, the laces pre-tied so he just zips them up, but the decision to throw on a shirt is a tough one. On one hand, his shirt is still dirty from the late gardening yesterday and he hasn’t had a good time to wash it. Father will be upset with him for putting on dirty clothes, and Mac definitely isn’t going to tell Father that he ripped a hole in his other work shirt. Father will find out eventually, but Mac isn’t about to rush the process.

On the other hand, if he doesn’t throw a shirt on, Father will probably just sit back and watch him work without lending a helping hand all day. He’ll go to bed late again, and Father will be upset if he’s tired tomorrow morning. That is—if Father doesn’t do anything _else_ to him.

Mac shudders at the thought and immediately pulls the dirty shirt over his head.

The squawking from the chickens gets louder, impatient and ready for attention.

Mac rolls his eyes. Who knew animals could be such a handful. But he needs to see to them before they wake Father. He’d be pissed, and Mac wants to avoid that.

His bedroom door opens silently. It used to be creaky, but Mac fixed it so that Father wouldn’t hear him sneaking to the kitchen late at night.

His room is literally the last door at the end of the hallway, dead center. To his left is a door that’s always closed and that Father has expressly forbidden him from entering. He picked the lock one time and was sorely disappointed that it was completely empty. To his right is the bathroom that he uses, and in the cabinet behind the mirror are his meds. Two bottles. There’s no label, so he doesn’t know their names, he just knows that he’s always taken them.

One horse pill and two small ones. Pink and white. Father will be upset if he brings a cup back here, so he sticks his mouth under the faucet for some water with which to swallow them.

Down the hall and to the right is the kitchen, and through the kitchen is the back door that leads to the fenced-in yard that the chickens are allowed to roam. To the right of the door is the pantry that Father keeps all the tools and supplies in. They used to be stored in the shed out by the detached garage, but after Father installed the underground fence, Mac couldn’t get the supplies he needed to complete his chores, so Father had him install a pantry in the kitchen instead.

The resealable bag in which Father keeps the chicken feed is nearly empty, so after scooping today’s food into the bucket, Mac writes _Chicken Food_ on the magnetic list on the fridge. Today is Tuesday, and Father normally makes a trip into town every Thursday. The feed will last, and Mac doesn’t have to portion.

The yard is fenced into two separate pins. The feeding pin is to the left of the coop, which is in the right-most corner of the yard, and Mac slings the bucket of feed all around, evenly dividing the piles up so that the chickens won’t fight each other. The bucket’s empty so he sets it by the back door and approaches the coop.

The chickens are greedily clucking away, ready for breakfast, and he steels himself before opening the door. They come flying out, _literally_ , and scrabble over him to get to the food. He’s had several months of practice avoiding them, and he thinks he does a good job this morning.

The squawking quiets down as they munch, and Mac trails behind them, closing them in so that he can have peace and quiet as he cleans the coop. He counts them, making sure they’re all accounted for: seventeen. Perfect.

He sticks his head in first, checking around the corners and in the nests to make sure he didn’t miscount and a hen doesn’t jump out at him. He didn’t. He smiles as he sees the many eggs laying all in the baskets and nests, and he realizes that he forgot to grab his egg bucket.

He sprints across the yard, snatches the food bucket, and gently opens the door to avoid loud noises, but it doesn’t matter. Father is standing by the sink, a glass of water in his hand when Mac walks in.

He immediately stops, drops his eyes to the floor, and waits for Father to say something. He’s not waiting for long.

Father doesn’t move an inch when he orders, “Hurry it up, boy, I’m hungry.”

Father doesn’t normally wake this early, so Mac hastily thinks back to this morning to recall if he’d made any loud noises, but he can’t think of anything. He was as quiet as he usually was. Father must’ve woken from something else, something he’ll complain about later and have Mac fix.

No matter, he isn’t in trouble, and Father _did_ tell him to go back to his work. So he grabs the egg basket and sprints back out.

Before collecting the eggs, he stops to count the chickens again. He can never be too careful when taking care of Father’s things. Seventeen chickens is good, and fifteen eggs is even better.

Sometimes, a chicken or two will lay their eggs in the afternoon after Mac’s collected the morning lot, and sometimes those eggs will have been laid outside in the sun for whatever reason. If it sits out there all day, it’ll be spoiled, so Mac checks the larger clumps of grass around the edges of the fence to make sure there’s nothing out there.

There isn’t. Fifteen eggs is a really good amount.

He unlatches the fence to let the chickens free roam around the yard and takes the eggs inside.

There’s no point to trying to stay silent because Father’s already awake, but sometimes he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed and yells about everything, so Mac tries to stay as quiet as possible anyway. The door opens without a sound, but the screen squeaks a bit.

He carefully deposits the eggs in the fridge, sets the bucket on the counter by the sink to remind himself to wash it out later, and grabs another bucket from the pantry.

His second chore of the morning is picking the berries.

Around the outside of some of the fence, Father has blueberry and blackberry bushes, and its blooming season for both. Picking all the ripe berries usually takes Mac roughly an hour and a half because there’s so many, but after ten minutes, Father sticks his head out the door and yells at him, “Boy, get your ass in this house!”

Mac freezes where he’s crouched, eyes wide, and a cold chill slithers down his spine. Father’s yelling is never good, but what did Mac do this time? He can’t remember, can’t think of anything. He made the bed, opened the curtains, left the door open. He left nothing on his floor, all his clothes were neatly put away. The chickens were fed, the eggs were in the fridge, the coop was clean— _the coop wasn’t_ _clean._ _He forgot to clean the coop_.

But Father hasn’t even come outside. There’s no possible way for Father to know the coop isn’t clean.

“ _Now_ , boy, Before I come out there and get you!”

Sitting there wondering what Father’s angry about will do him no good, except make Father angrier, so he hops up, leaving the bucket there to keep his spot, jumps over the fence, and dashes to the door. He walks in calmly, though, maintaining a dignified persona as Father has instructed time and again.

Father is in the kitchen again, having pulled out a skillet, a bowl, and some baking ingredients. Mac approaches the island, and Father has his back turned, but still growls, “I told you I was hungry—“ he sets the bag of sugar on the counter, “—and what did you do?” Father stops, but Mac knows better than to answer the question.

Father doesn’t answer his question, but turns around and plants his palms on the countertop, face red and jaw clenched, “Pancakes, “ he growls, “Bacon’s in the fridge.”

The kitchen leads to the TV room via the doorway behind Father, and Mac gulps as Father leaves through it. He stands still for a half minute, calming his heart rate and cataloging what Father’s already got out on the counter. He glances at the clock on the oven directly across the Island and it reads 6:09.

He hasn’t been awake a half hour and he’s already upset Father.

Father eats pancakes for breakfast most days, so Mac has the recipe memorized: the flour, salt, and sugar are already out, but he still needs to grab the baking powder, milk, butter, and eggs. Father will probably want some scrambled eggs on the side, and those are easy enough to munch on without Father noticing, so Mac grabs another egg.

The bacon will take roughly the same amount of time the pancakes will, so he starts them together. One pancake down, another cooking, the bacon sizzling, and Mac remembers that he left the berries outside. Father likes berries on the side with his breakfast, likes to top them with whipped cream—which Father _knows_ they’re all out of, so hopefully, he won’t be upset.

Mac flips the bacon and pancake and runs as fast as he can to get the berries. The food shouldn’t burn in such a short amount of time, but he doesn’t want Father to accuse him of anything like _trying to burn it,_ so he hops the fence, (calculating in his head how to shift his weight so that the skinny rods that hold up the chicken wire won’t bend, break, or fall, and at which angle he should hold the bucket so that he doesn’t spill any berries) and it saves him several dozen seconds of running all the way around the fence.

As soon as he opens the door, he’s blindsided by a backhanded slap, and he stumbles backward, tripping over the threshold and landing on his ass. The bucket of berries spills inside the kitchen, and he briefly thinks that they’re still salvageable since he scrubbed the floor just last night.

The slap took him by surprise, so he sits there for a moment, reeling, his cheek red, his eyes wide, and his mouth open in shock. He looks at Father, who growls, “Get up,” turns back into the house, and calls out, “You’re letting the food burn!”

That’s just what Mac was afraid of, and he jumps up and runs to the stove, smashing some berries as he goes.

The food’s _not_ burning, Father just doesn’t know how to cook, which is why Mac always does all the cooking. In fact, the bacon is perfect, and the pancake is a beautiful golden brown color.

Father’s behind him, probably disdainfully looking at the spilled berries, (but Mac can’t see him, he’s just guessing), scolds him, “Don’t jump the fence again. You could’ve brought it down.”

Mac _knows_ his calculations were correct _because_ he didn’t bring the fence down, but he’s not about to tell Father that. He’d probably think Mac was being insubordinate and punish him. Instead, he nods his understanding, butters the pancakes, and scoops out the bacon.

Father reaches from behind him, over his shoulder to turn the stovetop burners off, pressing himself close, and Mac tenses, uncomfortable in the situation that Father put him in, but unwilling to dishonor Father by pushing him off so that he can escape.

It’s over shortly, Father moving away and to the side to open the cupboard to the left, “You can’t forget to turn the stove off, or you’ll set the house on fire.” He sets the syrup on the counter and steps to the side, watching as Mac finishes up.

Mac _wishes_ he had the courage to set the house on fire, to escape this prison Father’s built around him, but that still wouldn’t let him escape _Father_. He’d have to kill him, murder him in cold blood, and Mac knew he could never do that.

The bacon and pancakes need to cool a minute or two, so he sets the kitchenette table. The tablecloth was slightly off, so he rearranges it, sets the butter and syrup as the centerpieces, a plate on both ends along with a fork, and only Father is allowed a knife.

He scoops the berries off the floor and back in the bucket to rinse them off, and dishes them out into a small bowl. Father gets two pancakes, four bacon slices, the berries, and—he forgot the eggs.

He forgot the scrambled eggs, but they shouldn’t matter. Father has a good amount of food, so he hopefully won’t make Mac prepare more.

Mac gets one pancake, two bacon slices, no berries because there weren’t enough left un-stepped-upon, and likewise, no eggs. No matter, he’ll munch on some berries when he finishes up his chores.

The table is arranged, and he steps back. Father sits down first, then Mac, and that’s the rule, and Father says the prayer, thanking God that they have food, that Mac is a good obedient son, that Father has a well-paying job to sustain them. He asks God to help Mac be a better son, to help Mac do his chores better, to help Mac cook better, to help Mac love Father better—generally, just to help Mac be better at everything. Mac never says grace, that’s Father’s job.

Father takes the first bite, and Mac doesn’t know why that’s a rule, but it is.

Father doesn’t say anything, just eats, and Mac cleans the table up. Washing the breakfast dishes is his next chore, but he needs to finish picking the blueberries and blackberries first, so he grabs the bucket and heads outside, counting the chickens on the way.

Counting the chickens is calming and helps him focus his thoughts, much like counting sheep at night. Sixteen. Meh, he probably just miscounted.

It only takes him an hour to collect the day’s bucket full of berries, and he deposits them in a gallon-sized, freezer baggie, writing the date on the bag before setting it in the freezer. There are already five other bags in there, so he makes the decision to bake a pie later if he has time.

This isn’t the first time he wonders what Father does with all the eggs and berries they have. Every day, Father goes to work, but sometimes Father takes a dozen eggs or a bag of frozen fruit with him. Father never explains, and of course, Mac never asks. But he wonders. Does he sell them, perhaps?

He remembers with a jolt that he still needs to clean the coop, so he glances at the clock to make sure he has time: 8:13. On a good day, he’d have had the coop cleaned, the berries picked, breakfast served, and the dishes washed all before Father leaves at 8:45 for work. Father always checks his chores before leaving, which gives Mac barely half an hour to make sure Father has a good day.

Why does Father’s mood always rest on Mac’s shoulders?

He has to clean the coop fast so that he can get the dishes washed, but the chickens have already been released to roam, so that’ll hinder him. Nonetheless, he’s gotta _go_.

It’s Tuesday, which means he only has to muck out the bedding, so he grabs the broom and heads out. The wheelbarrow is on the other side of the fence so that the chickens don’t climb all over it, but it’s not in the shed; otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to get to it to use it. That damn invisible fence has Mac caged, but it’s been a while since he _thought_ about running away.

The chickens are pesky things, annoying and noisy, but he gets their coop cleaned, dumps the soiled bedding in the compost pile on the right side of the house—that’s where Father wants Mac to plant corn and tomatoes, but the season isn’t right for planting, so he’ll have to wait for next year.

He fills the coop with fresh bedding and notes that Father has about two week’s worth of bedding left. He’ll write it on the list but won’t underline it yet.

He’s dirty and sweaty, but he’s glad he put a shirt on. He would have had to immediately showered off before continuing with his chores which would have cost him time, but instead, he just tosses his soiled shirt in the laundry basket and fills a sink with hot water.

8:43—perfect timing.

Father comes in right as Mac begins scrubbing the first plate. Mac doesn’t stop, but he notices out of the corner of his eye that Father is staring at the chickens longer than normal. In fact, he seems still as a statue, which is worrying.

Mac stops scrubbing, turns to look, and sure enough, Father looks angry again, gazing at the yard.

There’s a window above the sink and Mac looks out, sees the chickens, sees the clean coop, the tidy yard, the organized bushes. What’s wrong? Why is Father upset?

He counts the chickens: sixteen…

His blood runs cold and he stills, counts again: sixteen.

Father noticed first, and he’s just standing there.

8:45—he’s going to be late for work.

Father’s going to punish him for losing a chicken and he’s going to punish him again for making him late for work. The question that remains is: Is Father going to punish him before he leaves or after he returns? Because if Mac is punished before Father leaves, then he won’t be able to finish his chores, and when Father gets home, he’ll be punished again, and _oh god_ this doesn’t bode well, not at all, and Mac is scared.

Where’d the chicken even go? How did it get loose? Is it hiding in the coop—no, cause the coop has windows and you can see in, and _it’s not there_ , and maybe Father will let him look for the chicken before punishing him. Besides, how was this even Mac’s fault? Maybe Father won’t actually punish him for it, maybe he’ll just yell and leave.

Mac’s still frozen by the sink, sightless eyes gazing at the soap bubbles, and Father _roars_ , “ _Boy!_ ”

Mac flinches and hides his shaking hands under the soap, ducks his head in submission and squeezes his eyes shut, pleading in his head _please don’t punish me, please don’t punish me, please don’t punish me—_

“How many birds do you see out there?” Father turns to him, glaring, fuming. Chickens were expensive around this area, and for Mac to have—

Father flies toward him, backing him up in the corner where the counter turns to join the stove, hands gripping Mac’s biceps tight. His voice is heavy and threatening, “ _How many_ do you see?”

Mac knows that if he opens his mouth to answer he’ll just be thrown in the closet. Every single time he talks he’s thrown in the closet. Father wants an answer, but he also doesn’t want an answer. If Mac talks, he’ll be punished. If he doesn’t talk, he’ll be punished. There’s no better option. At least he doesn’t know the punishment specifically for keeping quiet, maybe there won’t _be_ one, so he keeps his mouth shut, his jaw clenched in fright.

Father squeezes harder, probably leaving bruises, and shakes him, rattling Mac’s head as he attempts to keep steady, but Mac’s back is shoved into the edge of the counter, probably also leaving bruises.

“Why are you so _stupid_?” Father shouts again, and when he gets to the word _stupid_ , he releases a bicep to backhand Mac, and Mac sees an opening, uses the blow to fake a fall to the floor, escaping Father’s angry hands.

But the action backfires, Father uses his feet as he spits out, “Every _day_ ,” —a kick to the ribs, and Mac curls up— “I ask God why He’d give me the _useless” —_ another kick, and Mac whimpers— “piece of _garbage”—_ again, and Mac’s pretty sure that rib is cracked— _“_ that you are.”

Father backs off a step, and Mac sucks in a breath, unaware that he was holding it. He uncurls in order to lever himself up, clenching his teeth from the pain in his ribs, but Father must have seen the clock, because he roars through clenched teeth and stomps on Mac’s outstretched hand, eliciting a scream of pain.

Tears well in Mac’s eyes from the throbbing of his fingers, but Father’s still got his shoe on them, so he can’t tell how bad the damage is.

“ _Great!_ ” Father twists his foot on Mac’s hand, further hurting his fingers, and Mac screams again.

“Now look what you’ve done!” He finally releases, and Mac turns on his back on the floor, delicately holding his hand to his chest to protect it. He’s not paying attention to what Father’s doing, but he hears him moving around.

“I’m going to be late because of you!”

The door opens, keys jingle, and Father seethes, “You better have found that chicken by the time I get back, or _so help me…_ ” He doesn’t finish, just closes the door behind him and leaves. Mac doesn’t move until he hears the car crunch on the gravel driveway as it pulls out.

He sobs once, releasing the terror of Father’s wrath and allowing himself to relax, for now that Father was gone, he doesn’t have to worry so much about everything. His hand hurts, a lot, and looking at it, he knows two fingers are broken, not bad, but definitely broken. His ribs hurt, but he’s used to _that_ pain.

He sits up, puts his back to the cabinet, and breathes, wipes away the few tears that gathered.

Not for the first time does he realize just _how much_ he hates Father.

~

Mac’s day-to-day chores while Father’s gone, in no particular order, are these: tidy the house; vacuum the carpet; mop the floors; dust all surfaces; wash all dirty laundry, fold, and put them away; prepare dinner; bathe, and for Mac’s sake, do it _before_ Father returns; take out the trash; and just any other generic thing to keep the house clean. Father’s gone to work for eight hours, which leaves Mac with plenty of time to get them all done.

Right now though, Mac’s afraid he won’t have everything done in time. His hand throbs mercilessly, and he’s seriously contemplating picking the lock to Father’s medicine cabinet and sneaking an Advil, but if Father finds out, he’ll get in _a lot_ of trouble. Father’ll consider that stealing from him and last time he did that, Father locked him in the closet all night long.

The laundry is the first thing Mac does, and he tosses in all his clothes, even the ones he’s wearing, and goes to find Father’s while the machine is filling up. Father doesn’t have anything in his laundry basket, which means that Mac has to venture into his room to find them. He hates Father’s room.

It’s the largest bedroom, but also the smallest. Father has bookshelves all along the open walls, a kingsized, unmade bed, cluttered nightstands, magazines and newspapers all in the floor, wardrobes and dressers that are untidy, and just generally no open wall space. Father’s blackout curtains are keeping the light out, so the first thing Mac does is pull those aside.

He sighs as he realizes he’ll need to clean Father’s room if he wants Father to be in a slightly better mood when he comes home.

Father has never given him a chore that required him to go in his room, but he’s also never punished Mac for cleaning up, so he figures it’s safe. He’ll get to this room after he finishes the rest of his chores— _if_ he finishes the rest of his chores.

Mac’s hand throbs more and more as he picks up Father’s clothes, and he finally admits to himself that he needs to wrap it. Thing is, though, that Father doesn’t keep wrapping gauze just lying around. If he had it to begin with, it’d be in the locked cabinet, but Mac doesn’t want to get into it, because there’s no way that Father won’t notice.

It takes less than five minutes to gather the dirty laundry, and there’s enough of it that Mac’ll have to run two cycles. He leaves the door open so the room’ll air out, and tosses as much as will fit into the current cycle, and closes the door to the laundry room to keep the sound out. Mac really enjoys the quiet of the house when it’s a relaxed quiet, which only comes around when Father’s gone. Makes sense, right?

He goes to dust next. He hates Father’s old-timey feather duster because it doesn’t capture the dust, just flicks it all on the floor. He starts with the higher shelves and works down, ensuring all the dust is on the floor before the wash cycle ends and starting the next one.

Vacuuming is next, and he multiplies the total square footage of the carpeted areas by his vacuuming rate to determine how long it’ll take him. By the time he’s finished, it’s eleven o’clock exactly, and he’s proud of his spot-on calculation. He does a similar calculation in his head for mowing the grass outside, and he remembers to write on the fridge that Father needs to retrieve the lawnmower from the shed. Well, he writes it politely: _May I mow the lawn, please?_

Last year, the underground fence and electric implant hadn’t been around from stopping him from getting the mower himself—and he stops, thinking about last year, about why he has to have parameters, about _why_ he’d tried to esc— _run away_. He’d wanted to go _home_ , and he’d been off his medication for too long to realize that he _was_ home.

The strange part is that he has a feeling— _a memory_ —of a family, of a brother and a sister and a mother and a crazy uncle that he spent too much time with, but he can’t remember names or faces, just the _feeling_ of them. But he knows that’s not right, that his only other family was his mother died when he was a child. He just can’t figure out where he would have gotten that “memory.”

He’s about to start mopping when he remembers that if he wants to make tacos, he needs to take some beef from the freezer to start thawing. It’s Taco Tuesday. Father loves Taco Tuesday. Mac also loves Taco Tuesday because tacos aren’t difficult or time-consuming to prepare and he doesn’t have to start them until Father gets home. Although, he wants to start it early tonight, because if Father is going to punish him, he won’t be able to cook, and that’ll just make Father even angrier, which is to be avoided at all costs.

Mopping is too difficult with one hand, so Mac braves the pain and mops with both, although he uses his injured hand more as a guidance than an actual force. The drier buzzes and Mac sighs from the thought of having to fold the clothes with one hand. It’s fine, he’s done it before, he can do it again.

He does it again.

His hand isn’t just throbbing now, it’s downright screaming at him, and he knows he needs to wrap it, keep the fingers splinted, but there’s nothing here to wrap them with. Well, there are paper towels, but the last time he tried to use Father’s cheap off-brand paper towels to wrap a wound with, they tore and actually infected the wound, and Father was upset at him for wasting them. He didn’t want to go through that again, thanks.

It’s two o’clock when he’s finished cleaning the house, so he grabs Jack in his room, sits down on his bed, and relaxes, closes his eyes and listens to the faint sound of the wind blowing, the birds singing, the chickens clucking, the electricity buzzing, the thoughts in his head. He melts into the mattress thinking about that _memory_ , those strong feelings associated with them, and his entire past.

Everything is such a blur, nothing feels real, and he knows it’s because of the medication. But the medication is necessary, as proved by his numerous _failures_. Father can’t trust him to take his meds, can’t trust him to remember to do his chores, can’t trust him to remember his _own name_. For some reason, he always thinks about hamburgers when he thinks about his name, hamburgers and cows, but it’s Mackenzie. It’s always been Mackenzie.

Mackenzie, the son of Seth Donovan; that kid that was in that big accident when he was… when he was… he can’t remember how old he was when he was in the accident, he can’t even remember the accident, but he knows that he hit his head, was in the hospital for weeks, and was extremely confused when he got home. He remembers trying to run away and Father stopping him and having to remind him where he belonged; remembers _actually_ running away and the sheriff driving him back and him being punished by Father as a way to beat it into his head that this is where he belongs; he remembers being in Cairo and Jack was singing and Bozer was calling— _what?_

No, that never happened. He’s never left Browning, and what kind of name is _Bozer_ , anyway? He knows that that’s not a real memory, that it’s due to his head trauma, but how in the _world_ did his brain think up a scenario like _that_?

The drier buzzes, and he runs to get the clothes. If he takes them out in time, they won’t wrinkle, _and_ they’ll still be warm for him to put on.

Ah, but wait. He hasn’t showered yet. He checks the clock: 2:55, and tosses them back in the drier so he can hop in the shower.

Aside from his hand and the mishap this morning, today has been a good day. He doesn’t get many of those. He’s wearing his freshly warm clothes as he picks up Father’s room, and he hums a tune he can’t remember as he does it. He doesn’t need to start dinner until about five o’clock, so he can either take his time cleaning Father’s room, or he can clean quickly and relax for the rest of the night.

He decides to take his time. The more time he spends cleaning, the better it’ll look, and the more pleased Father will be. The more pleased Father is, the calmer his night will go, and the better he’ll sleep. Tomorrow is Wednesday, which means Father will come home from work and then leave again for church, and Mac always loves it when Father leaves.

He hates Father.

He hates Father so much that he suspects that he had a hand in Mother’s death and the accident that Mac was injured in—if it even was an _accident_. Father doesn’t love Mac, has never loved Mac, doesn’t want to be responsible for this screw-up of a son, an embarrassment to his good name—that’s why he leaves Mac home so much, never lets him go out in public because he’s an embarrassment.

Yet he tries so hard to not be. He tries so hard to make Father love him, to care about him. Mac’s his _son_ for crying out loud. He does _everything_ for Father, so _why can’t he love him?_ Why does _nobody_ love him?

He sniffs and suddenly realizes that he’s crying. He hates Father’s room, so he runs back to his room, slamming his door behind him, and collapses on his bed.

He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to be around Father, doesn’t want this life. This doesn’t even feel like a _life_ at all, feels like a prison, like he has no memories of this place and was just shoved here. He wants to run away, to escape, but he knows if he tries, he’ll just be caught and punished. It won’t be worth it.

He’s squeezing Jack so much that he’s afraid he’ll fall apart, so he relaxes, lets go, and apologizes, “I’m sorry— _so_ sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Don’t be mad at me.” Jack’s the only thing in his life that brings him comfort, and he smooths the fur on the top of his head down, patting him, kisses his forehead and sets him down.

He’s finished crying, needed to get that out of his system for a couple of days now, but his ribs hurt, his hand hurts, and he realized that he broke several rules in his emotional fit. Good thing Father isn’t home.

He’s not supposed to run in the house; he’s not supposed to slam doors, and he’s not supposed to have his door closed if he’s not sleeping.

He knows Father will be home soon, so he gets up and opens his door, then just lays back on his bed with Jack to just wait.

~

It’s almost an hour later when he hears the door open. Father’s home.

So he gets up, wipes his face, and smooths the blankets on his bed back to the way they were before.

It’s time to start dinner, so he smiles at Father, who ignores him and goes to change clothes. He’ll see the clean room and be in a good mood for Taco Tuesday.

The meat’s pretty much all thawed so he sets it in the skillet to start frying. While that’s sizzling, he takes the shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, grated cheese, and the tub of sour cream out of the refrigerator and sets them on the island counter.

Father comes back in while Mac’s actively frying the ground beef and goes to look out the window much the same way he did earlier this morning when— _the chicken._

Mac stills, eyes wide. He forgot to look for the chicken.

Hopefully, it came back. Hopefully, it joined the others in the pin. Hopefully, he and Father just miscounted this morning.

“Still sixteen,” Father announces. He stands there, and Mac stirs the meat. It’s just about ready.

“Did you find the seventeenth?” Father turns to look at him, and Mac stills once again. And once again, he juggles the options of speaking versus keeping silent.

Father stands there, waiting for an answer, but Mac has his back turned, frying at the stove, so he can’t see the expression on Father’s face. Is it anger? Disappointment? Embarrassment? Sadness?

Mac turns off the burner, pours the ground meat into a bowl, and sets it on the island counter next to the lettuce. He forgot to grab the taco shells, so he turns back around, deliberately avoiding Father’s gaze, and grabs them quickly out of the cupboard.

His lip is quivering from fear when he looks up at Father.

It was his first guess: Father’s angry. And still waiting for an answer, so he shakes his head and breaks eye contact to grab plates.

He turns back around to set them on the counter, but Father snatches them from his hand and violently smashes them on the floor. Mac flinches and jumps back, out of the way of the flying shards, while Father yells, “ _Damn it,_ son!”

Mac’s eyes are wide and wet when Father stares into his soul, saying, “Did you disobey me, or did you fail me? Which one, one or two?”

Mac’s shaking now, terrified of having to give an answer, knowing that either answer is going to make Father even angrier and more volatile.

He supposes he both disobeyed and failed Father, so with one hand he raises one finger and with the other, he raises two.

Father closes his eyes and clenches his fists and Mac waits.

“Downstairs. Now.” Father commands calmly.

Mac’s jaw opens slightly and he gasps in a shaky breath.

Downstairs seems like too much of a punishment for this. A chicken going missing isn’t even Mac’s fault. He figured Father would lock him in the closet or deny him dinner, but— _downstairs_? That’s too much. His legs start shaking and he’s terrified.

Father opens his eyes and points at the door to the basement, “What did I just say?”

Calm anger in Father is the worst anger in Father, and terrified as Mac is, he forces himself to move, albeit slowly. But he can’t open the door. His hand’s shaking too much, and he can’t make his wrist turn the knob. He knows he’s making Father’s anger worse, but he can’t help it. This isn’t _fair_.

“I’ll have to drag you down again, won’t I?”

Mac supposes that, yes, he will, and he supposes that maybe Father had a bad day at work and this is why he’s reacting like this, but he also supposes that Father doesn’t love him, and that’s why he’s doing this.

Regardless, Father grips his upper arm, wrenches the door open and tosses Mac down the steps.

The stairs are wooden and the floor at the bottom is concrete, and Mac knows through previous experience that the fall can break bones, but he manages to catch himself, stumbles down half before falling down the rest. Mid-fall, though, he calculates the angles of his tumble and the forces applied to his fall to determine how badly it’ll damage him, and he concludes that he’ll have some pretty nasty bruises, but nothing will break.

He’s right. He’s always right.

His knees hurt, and his elbow throbs, but Father wastes no time, grabbing that elbow and hoisting him up, half carrying, half dragging him to the far wall.

Mac’s mind plays a repeat of _No, no, no, nonono_ while his legs refuse to cooperate with him. He wants to scramble away, but it’s too late, they’re already at their destination, and Father drops him.

“Stand up.”

He knows what’s about to happen, knows that Father’s about to whip him, but the intense trepidation has him crying already and he wants to plead with Father to not to, and he forgets that he’s supposed to obey Father, instead, opens his mouth and words tumble out, “Please, Father, don’t. I’m sorry, I _am_. _Please—“_

Father rams his knee into Mac’s face, interrupting and stopping him, “ _Don’t you_ dare _speak to me again_.”

Mac just closes his eyes and nods and feels Father grab his wrists, stretch him up, and buckle him into the restraints that hang from the ceiling.

He knows that Father’s going to whip him until he feels that Mac has learned his lesson, and then Father’s going to leave him hanging for the night. Sometimes, Father doesn’t come back until after he comes home from work the next day, but he also knows that Father doesn’t want anything to do with the chickens so maybe he’ll let Mac down in the morning before he goes to work.

Mac is right, and Father takes pity, letting him down the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The semester is coming to an end, and Finals week is coming up, so I'll have to take a break from this story. At least, until all the chaos of overdue papers and absent clinicals is all wrapped up.


	6. The Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac's recovery has progress.

_Do not stand at my grave and weep_

_I am not there; I do not sleep._

_~_

Cairo day came and went, and Mac was nowhere to be found. He’d been missing for two weeks.

A year later and Jack is settling onto his mom’s land. He’s got two thousand, six hundred acres to maintain and not a lot of money to do so, though he doesn’t need to worry about property taxes. His father and mother’s social security covers most of it, and his mother, while not living on the property herself, covers the last bit.

Jack feels a bit helpless at not being able to cover it, that his mother—who, by all means, can take care of herself—has to take care of _him_ —isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?—but she promised that she’ll withdraw her thumb after he’s able to get his feet under him.

It’s Cairo Day, and he misses Mac.

He’s got a contract with the police department to move their horses from their measly hundred-acre plot to his much much larger plot once he gets into sufficient condition. All he has left is to ensure the fence is up and secure, which he just finished this morning.

But he hasn’t started employment. He still has no money. He isn’t able to do anything special for Cairo Day, for Mac, for Mac’s memory.

He heats frozen waffles for lunch and eats in silence. That’s the best he can do right now.

Through the kitchen window, he can see this tree out back which looks fit for swinging, and he decides he wants to hang a tire swing in honor of Mac’s memory. The kid would love to tell him about the forces and angles and arc length…

There’s nobody to help him hang the swing, nobody to even share the day with. Nobody to know how much he hurts.

A year later, and the ranch is running smoothly. He keeps ten horses in his care and has only one stablehand employed. He’s been thinking about getting some cows, but he doesn’t have the emotional stability for that just yet.

When the subject is broached, all he can think about are hamburgers, Carl’s Jr.’s, and _Angus_.

Cairo day comes around, and he’s already taken off work, hired an extra two sets of hands while he’s away. He’s been gone for over a year, wants to head back to LA to visit the guys.

He keeps in touch with Riley, of course. She’s doing great—the director position fits her like a boot one size-too-small. He video chats with her almost once a month, but they’re both pretty busy, and he hasn’t actually seen her in two months.

His chats with Bozer are few and far between. They got to know each other through Mac, and that’s hard on both of them, though Riley tells him that Boz is actually doing really well. He seems to have moved on, and that’s okay.

That’s okay.

It hurts, though.

Why is Mac’s oldest friend able to move on while Jack can’t?

Why is Jack stuck in the past?

Jack actually hasn’t spoken to Matty since he left Phoenix, and he knows Matty is upset that Jack went through Riley to get his new phone number into his updated file. He just…

Matty knew Mac’s father that whole time, deliberately kept it from them, from Mac, from the one person who needed it most, and Jack just gets so irrationally upset when he thinks about it. He knows it’s been a while since then, but again, why is he so stuck in the past?

Is it the lack of closure?

Mac _disappeared._ He didn’t _die_!

And yet…

It sure feels like he did.

And then Jack had just left like that, stormed out, got in his car, and drove to Texas. He hasn’t been to LA since. Riley and Elwood boxed his stuff and drove out to Texas to help him settle in right after.

He supposes that it’s time to see them all again.

He doesn’t tell anybody he’s coming, takes his GTO, and he’s an hour out before he remembers that Mac has a tombstone in the cemetery beside his mother. More than anything, he wants to visit Mac again, so that’s where he goes first.

Mac’s tombstone is to the left of his parents’, the first one you come upon, but Jack doesn’t stop at it. No, he stops at James MacGyver’s. He didn’t expect to his name there, didn’t even know he died.

Mac never got to see the father that he’d been searching so hard for, and Jack supposes that it’s for the best. James was a disappointment, a lousy and neglectful father, who didn’t deserve to get to see his son every day while his son lived with the guilt of abandonment. James just _let_ Mac think it was all his fault his father ditched him.

After all this time, Jack still harbors such powerful resentment that he places the flowers on Mac’s left, as far from James as he possibly can. He kinda wants to spit on the old man’s grave, but he doesn’t, knows that that’s crossing a line, and if the zombie apocalypse goes down while Jack’s still alive, James will come right for him.

Jack smiles.

He’s being ridiculous, but in his defense, he’s always ridiculous when Mac’s around. It’s how he gets the kid to lighten up and smile.

His smile turns sad and he fixes the flowers, straightens them, and smoothes out the petals.

They’re grey, duct tape flowers. He bought them from a yard sale a month or so ago thinking that they’d liven up his home like flowers usually do but with a touch of Mac—okay, yeah, he’s definitely dwelling on the past.

Mac’s been gone for two years.

Jack’s hoping this trip will help him move on.

He doesn’t know what to say to Mac right now, so he just sits down, lets the cool breeze slide over him, and closes his eyes. He can feel the tears welling, can feel the loss so deeply even after all this time.

He takes a deep breath before opening them again, and the headstone is staring right at him.

_Angus MacGyver_

_3/23/1990-7/10/2018_

His inhale shudders, and he isn’t able to stop the sob that escapes.

He hadn’t seen the dates before now, and somehow, just that there _are_ dates marking a beginning and an _ending—_ just that there’s a date that marks the end of someone’s life…

How can a rich, young, beautiful life be silenced with just a date when…

Mac’s death was never actually confirmed, so that date isn’t true, can’t possibly be real.

But it is. Jack knows it.

Mac may have died the say he went missing, back in April or a week after that, or maybe a month. Who knew?

But he died on that day, on that day that Phoenix let him go, that all his friends said goodbye and started moving on.

His ending has already been set in stone. What hope still exists?

Staring at those series of numbers finalized that fact.

Mac’s ending has been chiseled in solid stone and there’s no changing it.

Mac is dead.

Just like Jack’s hope.

Cairo Day really is the worst.

~

_I am a thousand winds that blow,_

_I am the diamond glints on snow,_

~

He wasn’t worried.

_He wasn’t._

It’s just that he’s never left Mac home alone for this long before.

There was a competition ten hours east in which two of the horses had been entered. Jack wasn’t going to take them himself originally, but then the Sheriff offered a pay raise if he went with the horses, and Jack really needs the money.

He told Mac that he’d be gone for three days: one for the drive there, one for the competition, and one for the drive back.

Mac, of course, didn’t protest at all, but his standing on the porch just watching as Jack drove away was somehow worse.

Jack had left just after six in the morning and had arrived just after eleven, so apparently it was a ten hour _round trip_ and not one way, which meant that he could leave after the horses were finished doing whatever it was they needed to do, and he could get home and back to Mac a day early.

Because they were the Sheriff’s horses, they went first and were homeward bound by noon.

The Sheriff wanted Jack to leave the horses at the station that night so the officers could celebrate and spend time with the animals, which allowed Jack to drive home a trailer (and a lot of noise) down.

He’s going to surprise Mac, and Mac is going to be so happy!

He leaves the truck back at the beginning of the dirt driveway so that Mac won’t see the flying dirt and catch on. Mac doesn’t have chores, per se, so Jack doesn’t know where he’ll find him, but he opens the back door and sneaks in. He can hear sound, music, he thinks, but it’s faint. Must be coming from one of the back rooms.

The farmhouse is old, but it’s a sturdy thing, always has been, and none of the floorboards creak—well, except in the attic, but that’s another story about his old man’s brother’s ex-wife’s sister’s stupidity, and that story is old as dirt. Jack is never able to remember it correctly, so whenever he tells it, the plot always changes, always has a new flare of drama in it.

Anyway, the farmhouse doesn’t creak one bit, so Jack sneaks down the hall slowly to surprise Mac. He’s not going to do the whole _jump out of nowhere and make the person scream_ bit, heck no. He was just going to stand by the door until Mac saw him, and he was going to take in every aspect of Mac’s face when he realizes Jack’s home, when it lights up, when he smiles.

He gets closer, Mac’s door is open and sunlight brightens the hallway, but that’s not what catches Jack’s attention. Music is playing, Elvis is drifting around, and Jack stops.

 _Kentucky Rain_. That’s the song, but that’s not Elvis’s voice.

The voice he hears is a voice that he hasn’t heard in a very long time, a voice that he thought he would never hear again.

He’s frozen against the wall outside Mac’s room, tears in his eyes as he listens to Mac sing.

He isn’t singing softly to himself; he’s carrying the pitch and volume as if he were on stage singing to a crowd. He’s having fun, too, Jack can hear him dancing around the room on the other side of the wall he’s leaning against. Jack can hear the happiness in his voice, his beautiful voice, his rich voice that’s carrying the tune and pitch perfectly.

The song changes to Suspicious Minds, and Mac sings just as passionately.

Jack closes his eyes as he feels tears begin to fall, and he smiles.

Mac’s happy.

To be honest, Jack had his doubts. Mac is always so quiet, so calm, and collected. He follows orders and works as hard as he can, sometimes exhausting himself. Jack sometimes wonders if Mac is happy being on the ranch, helping Jack with things, because it's physical labor, exhausting and without a definite end. Surely, Mac would be happier somewhere else, somewhere that didn’t demand so much from him.

Maybe he would be, but he hasn’t expressed such desires yet.

Mac has been here for just about three months now, and he’s adjusted as good as he’s going to, has warmed up to Jack as much as he’s going to. If he was ever going to express the desire to leave, well, he’s as comfortable doing so as he’s ever going to be. Yet he hasn’t.

Mac’s happy.

Jack’s happy.

Jack’s happier than he can ever remember, standing there in the hallway, watching the sunset from the light streaming through Mac’s window, listening to Mac sing Elvis and dance around his room.

Love Me Tender starts playing, and Mac starts singing, and then Mac comes around the corner and Jack watches as his face changes, watches as Mac stops singing, frozen on the spot, but instead of being joyful with Jack’s surprise, his eyes widen and a look of horror and dread drops over his features. It’s only fitting that the sunlight is dim enough to make the moment eerie and scary.

Jack doesn’t like how Mac looks petrified, but it’s kinda hard to see him in the dark, so Jack turns around to flick on the light. Mac’s not there when he turns back, and there’s a very faint click as Mac’s door slides smoothly shut.

The moment lasted less than ten seconds, yet it left a distaste in Jack’s mouth, a bitter flavor that Jack wants to spew away.

Mac still has a voice, and a great voice, at that!

But, Mac doesn’t use it when people are around. He won’t even speak to Jack.

What’s worse, what’s leaving that aftertaste is that Mac looked downright horrified that Jack heard him. Why had he looked like that?

Clearly, it has something to do with Dently and his House, and no way was Jack going to bring _that_ up.

About a minute passes before Jack gently knocks on the door. He isn’t going to open it unless Mac says it’s okay—wait, Mac never closes his door, ever. _Jack’s never had to knock before._

He presses his ear to the door but hears nothing.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He isn’t going to invade Mac’s privacy by opening the door without the go-ahead, but he knows Mac’s not going to give him that go-ahead, so he might as well just not try.

His plan backfired…

He waits outside the door another couple minutes before heading to the kitchen. Maybe Mac is hungry and will come out for food?

Maybe Mac needs to work through things and Jack just needs to give him space.

So Jack fries up some bologna and makes two sandwiches.

The sun has set, but the sky isn’t completely dark yet, which makes the swinging of the tire swing very eery and creepy, and his skin crawls. It’s swinging softly, like a ghost is pushing it—wait, no, there’s a person— _it IS a ghost_ —oh, wait, no it’s just Mac.

Mac’s just swinging.

Jack laughs to himself at his sudden fright.

Mac must’ve crawled through his window to hide.

Jack feels a bit bad for surprising and scaring Mac like that. Poor kid is still traumatized from his two years away, and for Jack to scare him more…

Jack swallows the guilt like he swallows the bite, and it settles in his stomach like a dead weight. He should go apologize.

He grabs the other sandwich and the remaining half of the one he’s munching on and heads out toward Mac, making plenty of noise as he goes so that Mac knows he’s coming.

The swinging stops, but Mac twirls slowly around in the air, not meeting his eyes.

A wise man once told Jack that sorry just starts the conversation, but when half the people in the conversation don’t speak, what good are words?

“ _We’re caught in a trap,”_ Mac doesn’t visibly react, just hangs on while the rope twirls him, “ _I can’t walk out,”_ Mac’s actively avoiding his eyes, but the grip on the swing is stilling it further, “ _Because I love you too much, baby._ ”

He doesn’t think he sounds _too_ ridiculous, but Mac is grinning big now, so he keeps going, handing the sandwich over.

“ _Why can’t you see,”_ he adds humor, adds gestures, pointing at Mac as he says this, “ _What you’re doing to me,”_ dramatically splays his palms over his heart, “ _When you don’t believe a word I say._ ”

Mac’s got his mouth full, but his eyes are bright, further encouraging Jack to increase the drama in his performance, “ _We can’t go on together,”_ Mac swallows and mumbles along, as that background line, “ _With suspicious minds (suspicious minds),”_ Jack is finally able to make eye contact, “ _And we can’t build our dreams,”_ Mac mumbles along with him for the last line, “ _On suspicious minds.”_

It’s the best apology he can give, and Mac’s harmonic mumbles are the best forgiveness he can receive.

~

_I am the sun on ripened grain,_

_I am the gentle autumn rain._

_~_

It’s March, and spring is just around the corner. The grass isn’t quite as dead as it could be, and the trees aren’t quite as full either, yet somehow, the cicadas still come out earlier than they’re supposed to. Of course—it’s _Texas_ , and that’s probably why.

For some reason, Jack wakes up super early, and before he thinks about turning over and going back to sleep, he’s thinking about the cicadas and how their song is great for a natural lullaby. They’re different from crickets, louder, more annoying, but it’s the type of annoying that makes you fall asleep.

Jack’s actively thinking about cicadas instead of passively before he realizes it, and then he’s wide awake with no hope of falling back under. He reaches over and checks the clock on his phone: 5:08, Tuesday.

He lays there in the darkness for another couple minutes contemplating just laying in bed until the sun fully rises but then thinks about breakfast. He thinks he should get up and make waffles for breakfast, real legit waffles and not the frozen kind. It’s been a long time since he made breakfast food for breakfast, or even made breakfast in general.

He normally leaves breakfast to a slice of toast eaten as he’s outside beginning the day, doesn’t really put much stock into it.

Some families treat breakfast as a family meal, but Jack prefers _dinner_ to be the bonding agent. After a long day of hard work, he’d like to relax with his family, which now consists of Mac and any guests that wander by.

He supposes that it would be nice opening the day with family, too, so sure, he’ll go make breakfast.

Should he make pancakes or waffles or omelets or scrambled eggs? Should he fry some bacon or sausages? Should he crack out the OJ?

He smacks his lips and realizes that he’s super thirsty, so he rolls out of bed and stands up.

OJ sounds nice.

There’s a slight problem with that plan, though. There’s no orange juice.

Jack stares into the fridge for a moment before deciding that Mac’s lemonade would be fine instead.

He closes the fridge but doesn’t move, just wipes a hand down his face, dislodging the crust in the corners of his eyes.

 _Dang it._ Why is he even awake? It’s too early for this.

The sky is just barely starting to look not quite so dark, a slightly blueish color.

He sets the lemonade on the counter and fetches a glass.

For some reason, he just remembers as he opens the cabinet door, that all their glasses were dirtied yesterday and he had told Mac to _not_ wash them, to wait 'til tomorrow. Yet, all the glasses are clean and put away, the counter is spotless, and the sink is empty.

 _Dang it, Mac_.

Mac seems to be relying on chores and cleaning and _doing something_ to keep himself sane, or something. Jack knows the kid went through hell with that man, and Jack’s been trying to help Mac out of the brainwashed mindset he’d been in all that time.

It doesn’t seem to be working, though.

Mac still cleans like crazy, all the time, still cooks all the time, still doesn’t speak, doesn’t really communicate all that often, doesn’t really seem to remember exactly who Jack is and what Jack means to him and what _he_ means to _Jack--_ point is, Mac hasn’t made a whole lot of progress.

One thing Jack can do for him, though, is cook breakfast. Mac probably never had that with that man, probably was always the one doing all the cooking and was probably _expected_ to cook breakfast. Jack can do this for him.

He grabs the eggs from the fridge and a stick of butter, snags a skillet from the wall where they’re all hanging, and flicks on the burner.

Plain ole scrambled eggs will do the trick, but they’re also… plain…

Diving back into the fridge, Jack grabs some cheese, and he doesn’t know what kind of cheese it is, but figures that any kind of cheese will make it better. There’s nothing really else in there that’ll go with scrambled eggs, so he goes to grab the salt and pepper shakers, too.

Their fridge is the sort with the bottom portion being the cold part and the top portion as the really cold part, so when he withdraws himself from the bottom portion with the cheese in hand, he stands up and Mac is standing there.

He startles, twitches back, hand clutching the fridge door for support as his heart hammers in his chest.

The silent figure is completely unexpected; the bear hanging ever by an arm is not.

Mac seems to need that thing everywhere he goes like it’s a comfort to his troubled mind.

Jack could use it right now, seeing as Mac gave him such a start.

“Morning, sunshine,” he spins, takes the cheese toward the stovetop where the eggs are cooking, continues, “Making scrambled eggs for breakfast. You hungry?”

He doesn’t reply, not that Jack’s expecting one.

The cheese melts into the gooey mixture, and he pushes it all around the skillet, sets it down for a minute to continue cooking while he snags some plates from the cabinet to his left. Mac is sitting at the bar on the island, watching patiently. Jack notices two forks and two knives are already waiting for them, courtesy of Mac.

Jack hums to fill the silence, but the eggs are done soon enough, and he divides the lot equally and sets a plate in front of Mac while sliding into the stool beside him.

The click of silverware being handled properly plays in the background as Jack devours his plate, but he notices that that’s all it is. Constant tinkering. He looks over. Mac is pushing his eggs around, _not_ eating.

Jack’s about to swallow his mouthful to ask Mac if everything is ok, but instead, he has to catch himself from choking on the half-chewed eggs.

“…still runny; may I cook them more?”

Mac looks at him, head tilted downward but eyes meeting eyes.

Jack is frozen where he sits, staring at Mac. Mac quickly diverts his gaze, waiting on tensed springs.

Did Mac just ask him a question?

Did Mac just _ask him a question?_

Like, full on, opened his mouth to speak, using the vocal cords, audibly shaping sounds into words— _speak?_

The moment is getting a little long now, so he swallows his unchewed bite, and nods, words to reply just not coming to mind.

Mac jumps toward the stove, relights it, and dumps his eggs back in the skillet.

Jack, of course, doesn’t want Mac to feel reluctant to speak in the future so he doesn’t point out this little tidbit, but he can’t help the gigantic smile that crosses his face.

Mac just spoke.

Jack never thought this day would come; he thought Mac was mute.

Sure, the incident with the singing and the tire swing was incredible, but that’s all it was, an incident. A one-time-only deal. He hasn’t heard Mac’s voice for going on three years, and he thought that he never would.

But he did.

Mac spoke, Mac’s coming out of his shell. He’s facing his fears and his trauma is being left behind in the dust.

Mac turns the stove off, dumps the eggs back on his plate, and slides back in front of Jack.

Jack’s staring, openly, shamelessly, so Mac looks up. Jack just wanted Mac to see how proud he is, that’s all.

Mac sees the smile and smiles back, and the moment’s over.

They continue eating their eggs.

~

_When you awaken in the morning's hush_

_I am the swift uplifting rush_

~

“Oh _man_ , Mac!” Jack’s laughing.

It’s lunch and they’re both starving but the refrigerator is broken, so all there is in this place is spoiled milk, spoiled eggs, and some stale bread. This month’s finances are tight, but there are only two days to go until payday. They can hold out. There’s also canned food in the pantry for situations like this.

Jack’s ever the optimist, though, has lived through these tight month’s and tighter before, so he’s laughing over this crazy situation.

“Something always goes wrong on Cairo day.” He shakes his head.

Even with the fridge working, the milk and eggs are spoiled and the bread is still stale. And the fridge would have been empty anyway.

But there wouldn’t have been such a large puddle in the kitchen for Mac to have slipped on.

Mac is sitting at the table, peeling off the wet socks. The back of his shirt and pants are soaked through, but they’re just pajamas. Mac woulda changed either way.

Jack just came back inside from turning off the water main. The flathead screwdriver is still gripped in his hand, but he sets it on the table as he slides in across from Mac.

Mac’s smiling, so Jack tells the story, the same story that he always tells about Cairo Day, and even though Mac was _there_ when it happened, Jack tells it anyway.

This is news to Mac, though. Since when did they talk about Cairo Day?

He says so, right as Jack’s starting, and his voice is quiet, soft, but firm in tone, “We don’t talk about Cairo Day, remember?”

Jack laughs again, “Buddy, things have changed while you were gone. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

He darts around the corner to the pantry and grabs two cans of Speggettios, returns to see the screwdriver in Mac’s hand and Mac trying to pull the fridge away from the wall. Jack shakes his head.

“Nah, don’t bother, Mac. That thing hasn’t budged an inch in years. It’s unlikely she’ll move now that we need her to, stubborn contraption.”

He peels the lids off and upends the container. When he opens the microwave, the light inside doesn’t flick on.

Great.

“Oh, no. Oh, dude,” He turns to Mac, still trying to budge the unbudging appliance, “the microwave’s busted, too.”

Mac turns around, “Only because you talked about Cairo Day.”

Jack shakes his head, “Nah dude, talking or not, it’s Cairo Day, and something always, _always_ goes wrong on Cairo Day.”

Jack sticks two spoons in the cold mixture and sets the bowls on the table, sitting down in front of one himself.

Mac joins him and Jack says, “Ya know, it’s been years since that day, _years_ , and yet the curse still haunts us. Wonder if there’s a way to break it…”

Mac grimaces as he takes his first bite. Speggettios aren’t meant to be eaten cold.

Mac mumbles around his mouthful, “…don't remember it all that well.”

Jack looks up, “Hmm?” He swallows, “I do, I remember it like it were yesterday. The sarcophagus, the mummy, the video chat to Bozer, everything.” Another mouthful, but Jack doesn’t taste it, just swallows it down, “That’s what you do, that’s how it works. You remember the crazy stuff.”

“But you’re not supposed to talk about it.”

Jack didn’t think Mac was genuinely upset about the story, but that he was unsure about how he felt over Jack breaking their promise. He realized this and his features softened.

“The first time, you’d been gone, what, four or five months. I was drunk as a skunk, and Boze mentioned that Cairo day was just around the corner. I was sad and depressed and drunk.”

Mac’s head was down, eating slowly, listening.

Jack went on, “The second time was a year later. I was sad, depressed, drunk, and didn’t see much point in keeping a promise to a dead guy.”

He paused to gulp down two more spoonfuls.

“The third time, I was sad and not drunk, and you—“

Mac broke in, no hint of anger on his tongue, no hint of sadness, just a shadow of a smile playing on his lips while his eyes contained peace, “What’s sad is that, even when I forgot you, I still missed you.”

Mac went back to averting his eyes and eating cold pasta, but Jack let those words wash over him like a cold shower.

They finished up in silence, and Mac left without a word, presumably to change out of wet pajamas.

 _Even when I forgot you, I still missed you_.

Jack realized that Mac’s stuffed bear hadn’t been seen in quite some time.

~

_Of quiet birds in circled flight._

_I am the soft stars that shine at night._

_~_

“I think you should call Boz.”

It’s random, completely out of nowhere, and Mac looks up from his book.

“What?”

“I think you should call Boz, talk to him. Y’all have been buddies since birth, and I think it’s time you _spoke_ to him.”

It’s true that Mac’s been speaking more as of late, but he didn’t talk all that much. He prefers to only talk out of necessity, when something he has to say really _needs_ to be said. So talking on a phone hasn’t really crossed his mind.

He didn’t respond to Jack, just sat there thinking it over.

It was four hours later that he finally decides to give it a go.

Jack’s right. He and Bozer have been best friends since childhood, and he does miss the guy quite a lot. Bozer probably misses him too, but Bozer has probably moved on, having thought Mac was dead all that time.

But Mac still goes for it.

After dinner, while Jack’s out with the horses.

“ _Hello_?”

“Hey Boz, it’s me.”

There is silence for a beat, but Mac’s patient. He hears Boz breathing, hears him thinking.

“ _Mac_?”

“Yeah. I figured I’d give you a call, haven’t seen you in a while.”

Mac hears in his voice how disbelieving he is, how hesitant he is.

“ _Mac_! Man, _I can’t believe that you’re calling! I can hardly believe that’s you_ —“

Boz breaks off, and Mac hears a sniff, emotion charged in Boz’s next words, “ _Mac, buddy, I thought I lost you, I thought you were gone, I thought_ —“

Mac doesn’t like what Boz is saying, where Boz’s thoughts are.

“I’m back, remember? I’m okay, now. I’ll be—“

“ _Nah, not_ you _you_. _I thought that man changed you, that you were hiding in that giant brain of yours, trying to figure out how to be you again, but it’s been_ months, _and you never came back, and I thought we got you back just to lose you, but you’re not—you’re not—you’re here_ —“ a rather long sniff and Mac hears the unpleasant sound of someone blowing their nose, “— _you’re here, man, you’re alive, and_ oh god, _I’ll take a week off soon to come see you, I_ promise—“

Mac smiles. Listening to the happiness and joy in his best friend’s voice reminds him of just how much he misses him.

“Boz, don’t rush anything. I’ll be here. I’ll be waiting. I promise.”

~

_Do not stand at my grave and cry,_

_I am not there; I did not die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yall I'm SO SORRY this took me so long to get finished. I had a lot going on, but it's up. However, I can't guarantee another chapter. If motivation and inspiration strike at the same time, I'll go for it, but I can't guarantee.


End file.
